I find, these days,
That I think more in poetry than prose.
Mostly chaotic, unrhymed, unmetered strands of theme
Mostly revolving around the disheveled interior
I find myself carting around
It’s hard, these days,
To get through a conversation
Without longing to rush for my yellow notebook
Without writing down some sort of ecstatic poem
On the feebleness of time.
Even dialogue I have with myself.
It’s as if, these days,
I am surfing the edge of a tsunami,
That it’s the only way for my soul to tell me
That the world is not quite so unstable–
This poem-mind of mine speaks to me and
I cannot help but listen.
My peace is frazzled and frayed
Like the end of a rug
Which is caught in the front door
Which nobody thinks to move out of the way—
And indeed, sometimes I do not think to move
Myself away either.
This poem-mind of mine is a blaze
which consumes the color around me
Asking for some kind of depth
Asking for more understanding–
Slowly, very quietly all the wind dies down
And the chaos within me